Revelations
by Natta
Summary: Beka ponders on herself and Harper. Predrom.


Too many dreary nights have I dragged him back from yet another drunken endeavour, putting up with his suggestive comments, thinking there is no one, no one in this universe I would rather take into my bed than this strange little man, slobbering on my shoulder, barely able to keep his eyes open. That's what it does to people, I suppose. Makes you irresistible, if only to yourself.

Maybe that's enough. All those times I've looked in the mirror, looked into my own eyes and asked; _why? Why did he/she/it/them leave me?_ Whether this was my mother, too many years ago than I care to count, my dad, Rafe, Sid, Abel, Bobby, or those countless other boyfriends I thought truly loved me. No. No, not loved, that's the wrong word. Cared for me. I cared for them, most of them, even though I could never allow myself to love them. Still, they all left. In the end, they all leave.

But if I could only stop looking at myself in the mirror, if I could stop asking these questions, where would I be? If that one question would stop haunting me: _Why?_ If I could be like him, when he's…like this. I cast a glance over to where he's now picked up a flower, God knows where he got that from, and is dancing around with it, humming something to himself. He'll break something soon, but somehow; I can't bring myself to care. I don't…of course I don't want to be like that. That's why I don't drink; there simply is no charm in reducing yourself to a fool. But…maybe there is.

It's that feeling that you're irresistible. Just look at him. He doubts himself so much. He's so frightened. But when he's been drinking, he changes. Even if I roll my eyes at him, even though he's more annoying than my brother with a plan, there is something desirable there.

It's that feeling of being irresistible. That feeling that just won't budge. No matter how many times I snort at him, turn him down, push him off, he won't let it take his spirits down. Isn't that the feeling I've been looking for? The feeling that I need to stop looking in the mirror and wonder why? The feeling that…of course I don't want to get drunk, of course I don't want to act like that. But the way other people's opinions just don't matter to him. The way he _believes_ he is irresistible, and nothing can change it. If I had that…I wouldn't need to ask why they all leave. I wouldn't need to be wary of opening up to people in the fear that they'd take advantage, that they'd break my trust, because if they did I could just shrug my shoulders and move on!

It's a desirable feeling. It's one that…I could get used to. If only…

I gently steer him towards his bed, all the while shushing him. I'm frightened of letting him sleep after he's got so drunk. He always wakes up with nightmares, and it's so hard to deal with. I know they're true…all these things that he dream of, it's not monsters in the closet, they're real! And…when he wakes up, so distraught, so frightened, he has no choice but to open up to me.

That scares me too.

If he opens up to me then I feel like the reverse has happened of what I'm so afraid of, and it's almost the same thing! I mean, he's put his trust in me…it's an immense responsibility. No one I've given it to has been able to keep it. And it makes me wonder, why can't I do the same to him? If he can tell me all these…horror stories and I can't even tell him…

I'm so glad he's too inebriated to notice as I stifle a sob, wrapping him up tight in his bed. There's really no point in me trying to sleep. He'll wake me up soon enough. I stroke his hand, gently at first, before I stop and, climbing over him, join him on the bunk. Placing a protective arm around him, I promise that tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be more like him, I'll take the chances, the chances I don't dare to take, and I'll risk it. I'll risk it that he'll leave me, and anyone else we'll meet. I'll risk it; and if it happens again, I'll shrug my shoulders and say; _At least I tried._ I swallow, and stroke his hair softly.

And yet, I wonder…


End file.
